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Little by little, with every smile, every laugh, my daughter has helped bring life back to the vital organ in my chest, so I continued to move forward… for her… for us. It’s not that I haven’t thought about my family. I show her pictures of Collin every day, explain that he’s her brother in heaven. She doesn’t understand, but one day she will. She’ll know that in the midst of all the chaos, she was the calm in my storm. That because of her, I was able to breathe again, live again. And so, I stayed away, not wanting to risk falling back down that hole filled with depression.
Until now.
Vincent’s mom called and begged me to visit. She hasn’t seen me since I left and would like to meet my daughter. When they found out about her, they were confused and upset, but over time, they became supportive. They aren’t her grandparents, but they send her gifts and video chat with her as if they are. They love me like their own daughter and, by default, love my little girl as well.
Amidst the dark, my little girl brought light to all of us.
“All right, my little cherry pie.” I lift my daughter into my arms and blow a raspberry into her neck, making her giggle. “It’s time to get going.”
“Ma, Ma, Ma.” She shakes her head, trying to wiggle out of my arms. She’s only recently started babbling what sounds like Mama, and I swear every time she does it, I want to give her the world. We’ve spent the morning at A Latte Fun, an indoor playground for kids. I’m hoping to wear her out so when we go to the cemetery, she’ll sleep through it. I’m unsure of how being there will hit me, and the last thing I want is for her to see me crying.
“We have to go,” I tell her, holding her tighter as I walk us toward the door so I can change her diaper and get our shoes on. “We’ll come back again.” After changing her diaper, I set her on the cushioned seat and hand her a sippy cup so she can get something to drink while I get her shoes on. Once she’s ready to go, I open the stroller and buckle her in, then get my shoes on.
As I’m pushing the stroller out the door, I pull out my phone to let my in-laws know I’m on my way and will meet them at the cemetery when the stroller gets stuck on something. I set the phone into the cup holder and am preparing to get it over whatever hump it’s caught on, but when I look up, I realize it’s not stuck on anything. It’s been stopped… by Gage.
Fuck.
He raises a single brow, the brow with a metal bar going through it from top to bottom, and his eyes pierce into mine. I stumble back slightly, taken aback. I don’t remember a lot from our short time together, but I could never forget his eyes, the way they were dimmed and lifeless. Only now, they’re bright and filled with life and… hurt… hurt with a mixture of hardness to them, and I know in my gut, somehow, he knows.
My thoughts are confirmed when his gaze descends, landing on my daughter. His eyes soften as he takes her in. She’s completely unaware of what’s happening, babbling away and slamming her pacifier against the tray while she scoops up Cheerios with her other hand.
“Is she—?”
His words are cut off by a woman trying to get by. “Excuse me,” she says, annoyance laced in her tone, and it’s then I realize we’re still standing in the middle of the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
Gage backs up, and I push the stroller through, exiting onto the busy sidewalk. People in a rush skate around us as I move to the side before someone trips over the stroller.
I can feel Gage’s eyes on me the entire time, watching, assessing. It’s been a year and a half since I’ve seen him, and while he looks like the same man I walked out on, he also looks different. Healthier. But that’s always the case with addicts, right? They’re up, and then they’re down… I saw it over and over again with Vincent. He would be up, on top of the world, making promises, and then he would fall, taking all those promises with him. Until the last time, when he not only took all his promises but also our son with him.
The thought has me needing to get as far away from Gage as possible. Away from his addiction. His ups and downs. But before I can make my escape, he’s stepping in front of the stroller, putting his hand on the handlebar and blocking me in.
